Inn At Wintersun

Still not sure how I ended up at the Inn at Wintersun for the weekend. I’m used to staying at less regal lodgings, namely, no-​tell motels, backseats of cars or the spare room or basement of a «nice family» (most often eccentrics — imagine the Royal Tennenbaums meet the Adams Family) or on a rickety boat via AirBNB.
The gates at the Wintersun magically open and you proceed up a winding road towards porch lights beckoning guests to a wondrous retreat. I never met the proprietors, but notes lay on furnishings, instructing me where to find keys, acquire champagne, pastries, fruit and other comestibles. I was traveling solo, but I was given what only can be described as the «honeymoon suite» — with elegant décor, a fireplace, and a high end jacuzzi. Alone, I sipped champagne, read and tried to rationalize how I deserved such a luxurious sanctuary.
They serve a savory country breakfast, with all preparations of eggs, meats, breads, freshly squeezed juices, fruit and home-​made jams. The Wintersun must be the kind of place the gentry class and renowned musicians and actors stay in while visiting Ireland, Wales or France.
There’s even a labyrinth on the property. I had a difficult time getting out; so one of the ambling guests suggested I needed a virgin to offer as a sacrifice or tribute. Locating someone as a tribute was a challenging task. Locating a virgin was an impossible task. So I closed my eyes and walked and made my way out of the concentric rings of stones and grass.
The Inn at Wintersun is magical — the grounds are radiant. I felt like a prince while there. When I exited through the gates, I pinched myself, nodded and repeated, «I’m just a pauper, I’m just a …»
I was grateful for experiencing Paradise, albeit for a mere weekend. Better to have experienced Heaven and lost, than never to have experienced Heaven at all.